


lifetime

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22170907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: He keeps falling, and thinksthis is how I’m going to die.Five times Geralt saves Jaskier's life, and one time Jask saves the witcher'sEDIT: Fanart thanks to annablume now!!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 126
Kudos: 1742
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, witcher





	lifetime

**1.**

Geralt, maybe, has something of a warning, but if he does, or if he warns him of the impending landslide, Jaskier doesn’t hear it. He’s just minding his own business, okay, putting words together in his head to make for the next song he’s going to be working on, and then he starts to feel the ground shift and move beneath his feet. _Then_ he hears Geralt yell, and the world goes upside down, a bit. There’s rocks and dirt at his hands and back and face, and he’s trying to catch his bearings _and_ himself. He keeps falling, and thinks _this is how I’m going to die._

Oh, regrets. He has a few. Maybe he _shouldn’t_ have followed a _witcher_ out on the road. Literally the first day– the first day!– he’d been attacked by a sylvan and held captive by elves! He should have known! But it had been _fun,_ and the song– his ballad– his songs hadn’t caught on like that before and now he’d wanted to chase the high– except this is a _low,_ and he is nothing to a witcher except an irritant, useless and absolutely puny on the scale of things he has to deal with–

– the world jerks to a halt, and his jacket pulls uncomfortably tight.

_“Jaskier.”_

… he dares to open his eyes, which is _really_ a gods damned mistake because there’s no ground beneath him and he’s just… over open air, _dangling,_ and maybe he shrieks a little and struggles because _he’s going to die, he’s going to die like this–_

“Jaskier!” Geralt. Of course it’s Geralt. “Stop. _Moving.”_

“Oh– _fuck!”_ He tries to clamp down on the flight or fight, he _really_ does. “F–fuck, I hate heights. I hate heights.” He settles for muttering under his breath instead, wishing he had something to hold onto himself. But there’s nothing, just dirt and rocks and rubble of the ground he’d been standing. “Geralt–”

“Hold on.”

“To _what?”_ His voices breaks, embarrassingly shrill. He tries to breathe, and feels faint. “Please don’t let me fall,” he blurts. If he lives, he’ll be humiliated about that later.

“I’ve got you. Just–”

Jask stops listening. He can’t, really, anyway, because his ears are ringing, too, but it doesn’t matter, because Geralt’s said he’s got him.

Maybe he isn’t going to die like this.

 _“– askier.”_

He’s practically shaken by the hand holding at the back of his jacket, and he half yells back in panic. _“What?!_ Don’t–” He scrabbles again, soil collecting beneath his fingertips. There’s something like a sob building in his throat, and he curses being so in-touch with his emotions in this moment.

“Pay attention. Give me your hand.”

“I–” _can’t,_ he wants to snap, but when he finally tilts his head to something other than impending demise, Geralt is holding out his free hand for him to take. 

“Oh,” he breathes, and blinks past the tears welling up. Simple. It had felt like his whole world was over and this is just probably _routine_ to Geralt, and he’s got it all well in hand. He’s got Jaskier’s hand, once he finds enough courage to reach up and take it.

His stomach pitches again when his feet slip on the earth as he tries to get leverage, and again when Geralt trades the back of his jacket for taking his other hand, too, but all in all, it’s pretty effortless and Jask is back on solid ground in a matter of seconds.

For what it’s worth, Geralt looks a tiny bit rattled. “You sure you wanna keep going, bard?” he asks, only slightly out of breath.

The lingering vertigo catches up, and Jaskier nearly throws up on Geralt’s boots.

**2.**

He’s heard stories about the beauty of the sea. The power of it, the serenity of it. And maybe that’s right. Maybe it’s true.

But drowning? It’s not poetic in the slightest.

Jaskier can’t appreciate the sea.

It’s exactly like he’s thought drowning might be, and everything not at the same time. Not that he’s put a whole lot of _thought_ to it– he’s never near the coast, really, nevermind that he’d like to get to Novigrad one of these days– a forlorn hope now, he guesses– but it’s _encompassing,_ the weight and pressure of water, so much _water,_ at his head and feet and he struggles, and flails, and tries his damndest to find something to kick off of and get his head back above the water.

Like with so many other things, he fails.

He sucks in a breath unbidden, and the water rushes into his lungs. With that, a trickle of genuine fear, and oh– there it is, the deep, cold spark of terror settling into his chest– he coughs and chokes and splutters, and drowns.

Something catches him about the middle and pulls.

He breaks the surface and retches, and gasps, and clings to the arm clinging to him. His hair’s in his face, and there’s wide, dark splotches across his vision, but he can just make out _Geralt,_ looking like a drowned rat himself. Jaskier wants to laugh, but he thinks it comes out a terrified, wet sob instead.

It’s only when the air hits him that he realizes how _cold_ it is, and that the black keeps swarming his vision even when he can breathe again. His teeth chatter. He tastes blood. He’s still faint, and shakes so hard he staggers after he clamors onto the shore.

It’s a bit of a blur, after… he loses time between blinks and he’s only aware of the bone-deep cold blanketing his body. Eventually the sound of water stops rushing in his ears, and there’s a flash of heat and the crackle of flames, and Geralt half strips him out of his cold, wet things. Jaskier doesn’t have the strength to complain. He still feels a bit like he’s floating, trapped somewhere beneath the sea.

Sitting mostly naked by a fire in a filthy old cave with Geralt of Rivia settled in too close for warmth, probably _not_ the way the day should have ended. But he can’t even care. He’s _alive._

“Thanks,” he manages, later, voice hoarse from salt and water. It’s agony, but he doesn’t care. They’re _alive._

“Don’t mention it,” Geralt says, coarse but comforting in very own way.

**3.**

He can’t take his eyes off of Yennefer of Vengerberg. He couldn’t if he wanted to, and he _kind_ of wants to because she’s _kind_ of scary. But… he also can hardly breathe, and even though he wants to look away from her, he’s scared to close his eyes because he might not be able to open them again.

And, oh, he still doesn’t want to die. He’s just getting started. He thinks he’s just getting started. 

… still, he looks over at Geralt, terrified and… pleading, maybe. Because he wants him to tell him he’ll be fine. He wants him to tell him it’ll be okay. It’s selfish, and a little childish, but…

“You’re in good hands,” Geralt promises, and that’s… almost good enough.

He doesn’t know if he trusts Yennefer of Vengerberg, but, unequivocally, he trusts Geralt. It’s a little ridiculous, probably, all things considered, but he does. Trusts him with his life, multiple times over now. 

“… okay,” he wheezes, so quiet he barely hears himself. 

He puts his trust in Geralt’s choices, because he’s learned to trust them over all else, these days.

When he wakes up, things go wild and messy and are _absolutely_ very characteristic of Geralt and the things he gets into, and he _still_ doesn’t think he trusts Yennefer of Vengerberg, but, well, he’s here. Geralt was, too, and, all things considered– _not_ counting the threat of losing his cock, thank you _very_ much– Jaskier can’t complain much at all.

(Although, after being able to hardly speak as it was, he finds it in himself to very much do so when Geralt goes back for Yennefer, anyway.)

**4.**

_“– oh–”_

The knife bites against his throat, and Jaskier freezes. He doesn’t dare to _breathe,_ and he’s starting to feel lightheaded from that– or, or maybe it’s the fear, because that never stops happening, either.

Fear. What a fickle thing. He’s not brave, not at all. Jask knows this, and doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ be brave, not in the sense he’d always been expected to be. He can’t process that way. He can’t look death in the eyes and not be _absolutely scared shitless_ over it. He’s not like Geralt, although it’s around about this time he wishes he was because the tiny, scared noise that’s just come out of his mouth is going to be embarrassing, later, if he gets to come out of this.

Yeah, he’s said that before, but this is a little less dangerous than some of their other close calls and he’s going to catch hell for it. (But assuming he doesn’t die, Jask will take it willingly.)

“Let him go,” Geralt says, in that deadly calm way of his. It makes the hair on the back of Jaskier’s neck stand on end, anyway, because he _knows_ Geralt and what he’s capable of. Or maybe it’s the metal kissing at his skin, because Jaskier swallows and feels a tiny, sharp prickle of pain before he freezes again. “He’s just a bard.”

“He’s _your_ bard,” his captor snarls, and Jask can’t help the flicker of something like pride _and_ terror. He’s not _exclusively_ Geralt’s bard. He’s just… Geralt’s his muse, that’s all. And his friend. But now Jaskier’s rethinking about how _safe_ it is to have his name attached to Geralt’s in that way and– well, he can’t change it _now,_ can he? (He wouldn’t, anyway. If he could go back, change things…. he wouldn’t. Not anymore.)

“Then you’d think you’d know better than to touch a witcher’s things,” Geralt says, and it’s in that moment that Jaskier has to choke back a _laugh._ It’s so patently _ridiculous,_ that _he’s_ a bargaining chip now, when he’s never been anything in his life at all. And maybe he should be offended, but he’s not. Scared to the point of hysteria, but he’s not _offended_ that Geralt’s chosen him as something worth protecting. How could he be?

In the end, Geralt takes down the threat with a witcher sign and well-timed blades, so sudden that it maybe, just _maybe,_ scares Jask a little more than the actual hostage stuff. He half yells in shock when both men drop dead, and then his legs very nearly buckle beneath him, too. _“Shit,”_ he swears, and rubs the tiny droplet of blood from his throat with shaking fingers. “You could have– what if you _missed?”_ he accuses, and glares– halfhearted, and abruptly exhausted.

Geralt rolls his eyes, but smiles, _just_ a little, as he goes to collect his blades. “You’re welcome.”

“Yes, I– _thank you–_ but honestly, Geralt–”

He does his level best at chastising him in their usual bantering way. Geralt does him the kindness of pretending he isn’t holding himself up by leaning against the wall until his legs stop shaking again.

**5.**

Discomfort is an old friend. Agony, on the other hand, still hurts like hell.

The force of impact knocks him off his feet, and then he doesn’t remember much. Vaguely he remembers curling into himself at the tear of claws and teeth, white-hot and sharp exploding against his skin. Vaguely he remembers _remembering_ he has a knife, that Geralt had taught him how to– at a base level– fight back, but he’s a lover, not a fighter, and he’s definitely not a witcher so he can’t just look at _whatever the fuck is attacking him_ and not freeze up from that.

Besides, he hadn’t noticed until too late. By then it had been too late to fight back, too.

When he comes to, he’s laid flat on the ground, and feels too hot and too cold at the same time. His clothes are tacky and warm. His head is heavy. 

Geralt is talking somewhere nearby. “Fuck. _Fuck,_ stay awake.”

He needs to sleep.

_“Jaskier!”_

He thinks he yelps when Geralt shakes him, a bit. He barely hears himself. He barely hears anything. He _hurts_ and feels nothing. How can everything be such a paradox?

He tries to mumble the question out loud. Coughs up blood instead. That absolutely hurts. He gasps and chokes and moans.

“Fuck, Jaskier.”

_Three ‘fucks’. That’s not good._

“– w–what…?” he manages, and his body wrenches and writhes and he exclaims in agony when the movement tears him apart.

“Just– _alright,_ I’m sorry–”

_Oh. That’s even worse than ‘fuck.’_

“– gonna hurt like hell, hold on, Jask.”

_Oh. Good._

He swallows the potion Geralt puts to his lips, and screams when the pain flares to unbearable.

He’s still woozy when he wakes up again. This time, he’s in a bed, and he… still honestly feels like shit.

“… Geralt…?” he manages. His throat feels raw. He vaguely remembers screaming. A lot.

“Shit.”

Jaskier… frowns, or tries to. “Don’t sound so unhappy… um.” He tries to hang onto his consciousness. Clears his throat, and tries again. “What happened…?”

“You were attacked, and injured… badly.” Geralt pauses, and then continues. “I gave you my potions.”

His head swims. His eyes flutter shut. He’s so _tired,_ and he _hurts._ “What’s that mean…?” he mumbles. It must mean something. Geralt’s voice is wrong.

“Nothing, now,” Geralt replies. “You’re fine now. Somehow,” he mutters.

“Huh…?”

“Our potions, they’re not designed for humans. Nine times out of ten, humans don’t make it through taking them… or they wake up _wrong.”_

“Oh,” he breathes. “A gamble…”

“That paid out.”

Now he tries to smile. “‘m lucky…”

“You’re _stubborn,_ you mean,” Geralt says.

“Lucky,” Jaskier tries to stress, because he is, and he has been since he’d met Geralt in that tavern. But he doesn’t think he hits the inflection, and Geralt doesn’t sound like he’s likely to understand, anyway.

“Go back to sleep,” he says. “You’ll still feel like shit for days.”

“Hm.” Jaskier hums, and drifts back off to sleep, grateful.

**\+ 1**

He watches Geralt collapse, and feels a bit like the world crashes at his feet. He’s frozen to the spot, waiting, just… _waiting,_ willing him to get up. He doesn’t.

Jaskier runs.

Probably, he should run the _other_ way. Because if these _things_ can take Geralt down, Jask has no chance. But he prays to the gods he’s not sure he believes in that they have a few moments of reprieve before the creatures come back. So he runs _towards_ Geralt, slipping on blood slick ground until he crashes down next to him.

“Geralt! Geralt– Geralt, now is _not_ the time for a nap!” He presses his hand to his chest, feeling, _feeling–_ fuck, the panic swells, too near to tipping before he feels the rise and fall, a heartbeat, too slow, _too slow._ He’s been by his side and at his back too long for him to know _too slow_ when it comes to a witcher. It isn’t normal. It isn’t good. “Geralt. Oh fuck– _hold on.”_

He’s pretty sure he can’t hear him. He’s pretty sure he’s talking to try and calm his own nerves.

As much as he doesn’t want to leave him, he does, and sprints the distance to where they’d left Roach. Grabs Geralt’s bag and runs back, rummaging for the little bottles shoved unceremoniously at the bottom and he tries to remember– blue or orange? Blue or orange– _fuck,_ he _knows_ this, has watched Geralt make the potions enough to know the names and their purposes, and if his panic would just _calm the fuck down,_ he’d remember what _color_ Swallow is– 

The adrenalin pushes him forward, and then starts to break him apart when he drops down next to Geralt again.

 _“Geralt,_ listen to me– you– you can _not_ die.” He can’t think. He picks a bottle and prays it’s Geralt’s vitality recover of choice, or the enhanced version. “You don’t get to die. You’re not _slow_ enough yet,” he hisses, and his hands shake so badly when he tries to open the bottle that he can’t get the cork from it. “Godsdammit– Geralt, _please.”_ He wrenches it free with his teeth and presses the bottle to Geralt’s lips. “Please. _Please.”_

He’s had enough close calls to know this is a threat. A certainty, probably. _Death._ But that’s _him._ He’s _human._ He’s– this is a liability, for him. So maybe he’ll die out here. But Geralt can’t. Geralt _can’t._

He wants to be angry, but he’s scared to death instead.

“Geralt. Geralt, open your eyes.” Gods, what if it’s the wrong potion. What if he’s wrong? What if he’s too _late?_ “Ger… _Geralt.”_ The cracks are splintering. He feels himself start to crumble, too. His eyes burn and he tries to blink back the tears. Too late. He’s too _late–_

He sags the rest of the way to the ground. Braces his hands against the ground, feels the cool of the dirt and the tackiness of blood and monster guts, and stares at it because nothing looks the same, nothing _is_ the same. But the world’s still turning. Jaskier feels dizzy from it.

All of those times Geralt had gone through _hell_ for him, and he couldn’t even–

“… mm–”

– the world _stops_ turning. Jaskier stares at Geralt, watches his eyes flicker open, and _shakes_ when Geralt comes back to himself enough to look at Jask.

“Geralt–”

“… wha’ happened…?” 

“You–” The breath wheezes out between numb lips. He stares as _Geralt_ stares at _him,_ like _he’s_ got any reason to be staring. “– died. I think.”

“Oh.” Geralt shifts, experimenting. “Fuck– just that?”

“You…” _Just that._ “You– Don’t say _‘just that?’_ like it’s– like it’s– _nothing!”_ He smacks his chest, and only feels a tiny bit guilty when Geralt huffs a breath of pain. “I saved your life, you _prick!”_

“Uh huh…”

“And you just– just _wake up_ and–” He’s still shaking. Can’t quite catch himself when he’s too far gone in falling apart. “And–” He presses the back of his hand against his mouth and tries to will himself not to cry, but he’s never been good at that.

“Jaskier…”

“Don’t–” he gasps, and the sob breaks free. Geralt’s fine. Geralt’s fine. The tears overflow, and he doubles over to hide his face against his arm, still braced against Geralt’s chest.

“Jask…”

 _No, no, no,_ no, _you don’t get to act like this is_ normal. _This isn’t normal to_ me, _this’ll_ never _be normal to me, you can’t_ do _this to me–_

Probably for the best he can’t get those words out. He really would never live it down.

“Jask.” Geralt sighs, and then puts his hand at the back of Jaskier’s neck, warm and sticky and encompassing and _comforting._ Gods, _alive._ He’s alive.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long he _stays_ like that, both hands on Geralt’s chest and just _sobbing_ into his stupid leather armor. Feeling him breathe, feeling him live. And Geralt lets him. He just lets him.

Probably, he hears Jaskier stop crying before he’s even able to recognize it himself; he feels completely wrung out, utterly exhausted, and like _he’d_ been the one to almost die (which would have been better. Would have been preferable–)

Geralt slips his hand forward, and ruffles Jaskier’s hair. “Feeling better?” At least he sounds like _he_ does.

Jask breathes in until his chest burns, and lets it out in a rush. “… yeah,” because he is, now. “Yeah.” He swallows, and carefully pushes himself back. “Gods. And– and you?”

“Fine, now,” Geralt says, but still sticks out a hand for Jaskier to help him up even though Jask is sure he doesn’t really need it. “Thanks, Jask.”

“Yeah… yeah.” He helps him up, anyway. “Don’t mention it,” he says, and truly prays it never happens again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a big ol sucker for this trope, huh!!! 
> 
> ~~I have an illustration in mind for this fic, I'll come back when it gets brought to life strokes chin~~
> 
> russian translation: <https://ficbook.net/readfic/8961396> thank you, Timothy!


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